The Guy Came Out by Andrew Patrick I was sitting drunk on a plastic adirondack chair that my ex-girlfriend hadn't thought to take with her when I saw Death. It had been so long since I had been good and drunk - she hadn't liked it, and I thought her worth changing for - that I looked at Death a long time without recognizing it. When I did recognize it, I was too drunk to have any humility about it. "The fuck are you doing here?" I said to Death. "I'm waiting," said Death. "I thought Death waits for no man." "Poets know way less than they think," said Death. His voice was flat, cold, and strangely bereft of menace. I had another shot of whiskey. Death stood there, waiting. I looked at the fraying edges of his cloak. It was so dull a black it was almost brown. "I'm waiting for someone to come out," said Death. "So you can take him?" I said. "Yeah," said Death. "Why don't you just go in?"